Counterstrike: Terrorism for Hire
by That Idiot
Summary: Just another day in the life of a terrorist for hire
1. Default Chapter

You know why I'm a terrorist? Because it's one of the best paying jobs in the world. I used to work for the American government, within the black ops. department of the C.I.A. One day, while on a mission, I discovered that I'd been simply cut loose. That I was no longer valuable to the country in which I had given so much of my life, which I'd fought for and split blood for. Understandably, I was pissed. I spent the next few months dodging the assassins my former target sent after me, before I finally arrived in the middle of the Balkans. I then offered my service to one of the underground organizations there, and within months, I was getting offers from all over the world. Quite a lot of people these days are pissed off with their governments. Makes a mercenary like me quite rich.  
  
Don't get the impression I fight for a cause. The only thing I fight for is money, and if it looks like things are going to turn out real bad, I'm one of the first people out of there. Hey, it might sound cowardly, but the way I look at it, if I don't live, I don't get to spend my money. I've got almost half a billion US stashed away in some hundred bank accounts all over the world, primarily the Cayman Islands and that stalwart of shady dealings, the Swiss. So that's plenty of incentive to come back alive.  
  
Point in fact. I recently was working for a fairly large organization in Indonesia. They'd hired me to hit some officials, then to hang around for some other work. I was at their headquarters, when I looked out a window and saw four Blackhawks coming in low. I knew what was happening almost immediately. These people must have done some fairly major stuff if Counterstrike had been called in. I grabbed my rifle (a fully customized Sig SG-552 Commando, sniper scope, laser scope, under-slung grenade launcher, even a night scope) and started out of the building. All of the others were rushing about, grabbing weapons, barricading doors. There were about fifty of them here, so I was guessing that at least forty Counterstrike operatives were going to hit us. I'd already planned out an escape route in case of such a thing happening, but I did need some help to pull it off, so I grabbed three of the locals, and got them to follow me. They all carried ex-Soviet weapons, AK-47's, so I wasn't to confident in their abilities, but they were all I had to work with.  
  
I heard the gunfire start. It seemed that I'd underestimated the locals firepower, because the sounds I heard were two machine guns, either FN M- 239's or Minimis, opening up on the scurrying CT's from the roof. The Blackhawks took off quickly. They didn't even stay in holding patterns, which I thought was odd until I remembered the L.A.W's and the Soviet SA- 7's that were on the roof. Then I brought my mind back to the problem at hand.  
  
I had been leading my squad along the right hand side of the building when one of them dropped suddenly. We'd been running next to a raised garden, so we dived into cover behind the raised edge. The one who'd gone down twitched around on the ground, his chest badly mangled from the shot, meaning that someone had a fairly heavy rifle up there. I raised my head up carefully, but ducked as another shot banged into the rock next to me. I did it again, and then wondered where this guy had trained. He hadn't bothered relocating. I edged my way along the garden, and when I judged I'd moved far enough, I brought my rifle up, sighting on were he lay, slightly covered by a tree and the corner of the stone wall. He still hadn't noticed I'd moved when I blew the top of his skull off. I motioned for the other two to catch up to me, and we kept moving. Soon, we'd reached the perimeter fence, with no hassle. Most of the fighting was on the opposite side of the compound, so there were actually fairly few enemies. I came around a corner and ran straight into one. Our rifles clattered to the ground, and we both fell as well. I jumped up, knife in hand, as he struggled to get his pistol out of it's holster. I jumped him, twisting him around, then bringing the knife along his throat, cutting his jugular vein and his wind-pipe. I lowered his body to the ground, then picked up my rifle, hands covered in his sticky blood. I wiped it on my pants, and kept going, the two locals staring at me with something akin to awe, with quite a bit of terror mixed in.  
  
It didn't take us to long to escape the compound. Apparently, they hadn't consulted with the local law enforcement, which insured that the attack was a surprise, but also stopped a full cordon from being established. We slipped out, concealing our weapons carefully, then headed for the nearby jungle. Once we reached it, I pulled out my pistol, clipped the silencer to it, and shot them both in the back as they scouted ahead of me. Hey, they were only going to slow me down.  
  
That's a kind of extreme case. Normally, their not so difficult to get away from. Still, as an example of my life, it's a good one. I love being a mercenary. 


	2. Chapter 2

After getting a response with the other one, I decided to write this one as a way of doing something other than study ^_^. By the way Dargon, the first two were written at least two years ago. Well, that CT one was, this one was like 18 months ago. Compare all three.  
  
After that last unfortunate encounter, I headed for South America. Colombia, to be exact. What with all the drug cartels fighting all the times, combined with the rebels and government having it out, there was bound to be plenty of work for an experienced man like myself. And I was right.  
  
I fought on the side of several cartels, moving as the money flowed, though I tried not to fight any of the ones I'd previously been hired by. Not out of any professional ethics, but it does tend to piss people off when you switch from their side to that of the enemy. That was something a friend once told me. well, more like a target. But that's another story.  
  
After my last cartel job, I was hanging out in a bar in South Colombia. I won't tell you where, because the bar doesn't exist anymore. It was a victim to a government air strike some days after I left. Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself again.  
  
I was hanging out in the bar, having received an invitation there, to discuss a job. All I had on myself was my combat knife, strapped around my ankle, and a Berretta 92F tucked into the waistband of my pants. I'd left my rifle in the hotel room.  
  
How'd I get it through customs? That isn't important. I've gotten it past every single form of customs on the planet that I've been through with it.  
  
Anyway, back to the bar. I was sitting there nursing my drink, isn't too smart to get blasted in this profession, when this tall customer comes up to me. And when I say tall, I'm talking TALL. Like nearly seven feet. Guy was a monster, built like a tank as well.  
  
He introduced himself, sitting down. Didn't say his name, just that he looking for my services. Kind of understandable. We discussed the contract, and shook hands on it.  
  
He was standing to leave when the doors busted open, and the windows crashed inwards with a shattering spray of glass and other, more lethal items. As I threw myself back, I saw the big guy hit the deck hard, half- twisted around. Looked like he'd copped a round to his shoulder.  
  
Reaching down into my pants, I pulled the pistol out, slipping off the safety as it cleared. Lashing out with one of my legs, I knocked the table over. It was fairly sturdy, so I figured it would be okay for a while. Rolling forward, I crouched against it. The firing stopped, and I ducked my head over the table.  
  
Three men stood in the doorway, sun filtering in and distinguishing them as silhouettes. They were wearing heavy armour by the looks of it, carrying Heckler & Koch MP-5K sub-machine guns. They definitely weren't locals, the gear looked too good for them.  
  
My head withdrew back into cover as the three let off quick bursts from their guns. As I huddled, they stopped, and shouted for me to surrender. In English.  
  
Damn. Hadn't I left Counterstrike behind? I cocked the hammer of my pistol, and then let off a few blind rounds. The response thudded into the table. I was pretty sure this time they'd dived for cover as well. I edged my way to one side, and peered around it.  
  
One of the men who'd been standing in the door way was crouching next to a table. Luckily he didn't see me as I pulled my head back around. This time with my pistol, I lent around.  
  
This time he was looking right at me down the sight of his weapon. He didn't react as fast as I did though. My shot went straight through his forehead, right underneath the helmet. His weapon sprayed as he jerked backwards, finger reflexively pulling on the trigger. I was back behind the table, so it didn't really bother me.  
  
What really bothered me happened quickly after. A grenade popped in over the table, and landed right next to me. I grabbed it quickly, and tossed it away, turning from it and squeezing my eyes shut.  
  
Flash-bang grenades. Can be good. Can be a right proper bitch. My ears were ringing badly from the concussive blast, but I could see. Therefore, the Counterstrike operative was rather shocked to reach my side of the table, and see my gun pointed between his eyes. He flew backwards from the shot, collapsing against tables on his way to the ground.  
  
The other one didn't appear. I looked over the edge of the table, and saw him slumped on the ground. I stood up, noticing the blood pooled around him. The other two were dead, so keeping my gun trained carefully on the one in front of me, I moved up to examine him.  
  
I must of hit him with those blind shots, I realized upon seeing the two holes in his chest. They'd punched right through the Kevlar, probably killing him quickly. Damn, I'm good.  
  
I walked back to my client. He was lying still, hand firmly clasped to his shoulder. I went over, and helped him up, leading him out into the street. After all, he had just hired me. For now, I was going to be working for the rebel army.  
  
But how had Counterstrike found me? That was a mystery for another time. 


	3. Chapter 3

Where was I? Oh, yeah, that's right, Colombia. Well, the guy was from the rebel army. Basically, I'd just been hired for one job. A raid. I'll keep it short and simple.  
  
I returned him to his base, and was waiting for two days. Then we went into the operation. It was pretty basic, just a supply run, hitting the small Army outpost.  
  
I'd retrieved my blessed rifle, my wonderful Sig SG-552 Commando from my hotel room, and was now just waiting for the go.  
  
Luckily, it didn't take too long. The next day, a small group in their rag- tag uniforms turned up. They loaded themselves into two pick-up trucks, and waited. Two of the officers of the army walked out of the HQ, One got straight into the trucks, but the other came and picked me up, gesturing for me to get into the other truck.  
  
We roared out of the compound. I swear to God, that is one of the things I hate about most of my jobs. They're in countries where the drivers are all insane. We hurtled along the road, swerving dangerously, almost going on two wheels too many times to remember.  
  
Soon, we stopped. Everyone jumped out of the trucks, and began to check their weapons, making sure the ammo was full and that they were in working order. Most of them were carrying Ak-47's, old weapons that were the easiest to buy in large quantities. A few carried AK74's, the updated version. The officers all had Ak-74SU's, the Special Forces version of the rifle.  
  
The camp was still a little while away. Two of the soldiers were left behind, to bring the trucks up after they'd subdued the Army. We headed off, moving into the thick foliage that bordered the road.  
  
It took us twenty minutes, and then we were in position over the small supply dump. Only some ten soldiers were hear, and most of them were currently outside, eating their food in the sun. There wasn't really a mess hall, it being only a small camp.  
  
When the officers signaled it, I opened fire on the crowd as the others took off down the slope. I'd managed to kill four or five before they got into cover, returning fire at me with whatever weapon they had, mostly M4 rifles.  
  
The rebels managed to catch the rest of them off-guard, and had quickly killed them all. Now we were just mopping up. The two trucks came up, and they loaded them. I was on over-watch during this, so I didn't help them. Hell, I wouldn't have helped them anyway.  
  
It was a fairly simple job. The main reason I told you about it was the bit in the bar. Also, what happened afterwards.  
  
Okay, I know it's short. But I'm writing my original fiction story more at the moment. This and the FF8 story were quickly churned out today. Like it said, this story was a bit of a linking chapter, more than actively involved in Counterstrike. Okay, later peoples. 


End file.
